


Methos the Monster Hunter: A History

by rebaobsessions



Series: Monsters by Any Other Name [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed (TV), Highlander: The Series, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Methos-centric, Pre-Canon, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebaobsessions/pseuds/rebaobsessions
Summary: Many millennia ago, Methos knew nothing about the world he lived in. He had never encountered the supernatural, at least... not openly. But slowly, through the centuries, he became what would today be called a 'hunter'. He learned of the worlds hidden just beneath the surface, and those worlds forged him into the man he is today.This is his story. It is by no means all of it, nor is it the untainted truth (for who can claim that after so very long?), but this is the long sordid tale of the man who would become a myth.A myth who hunts monsters.(And how fitting is that?)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of several prequel stories I'm adding to my Men of Letters AU.  
> I hope you enjoy!  
> (A big thank you to my beta, EtchNya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More (a LOT more) than 3300BCE. Way, way, way long ago. Likely somewhere in the desert. Tie-in to Supernatural.  
> Probably ;)  
> Also with a very special cameo.

Long before the man known as Methos became known as the Legend, the Myth, the Oldest; long before the written word; before the great empires of Egypt or the reign of the Four Horsemen; before humanity became established… terrors haunted the night. No one spoke of the darkness you could touch. No one sought it out.

You huddled by the fire at night, and fought to survive with each passing breath. There was no time to question the Ancients that lurked alongside humanity.

But in the deep, cold, dark silence that penetrated the night… you could hear them.

One day, not long after the young man who would come to be known as Death died (trampled by the creatures—and who could say what they were called but ‘food’?— he hunted), he found himself stranded. It was night. It was dark. He was not sheltered by the safety of the fire.

Don’t ask the old man about this. He barely remembers. After all, it was so long ago… It’s all a blur to him. He will claim he doesn’t remember. He will claim it doesn’t matter.

But he does, and it changed the course of his life.

The darkness was so much closer and so much deeper and so much colder away from the fire. And what he saw? It was tall. Probably. It was thin, like smoke. Most likely. It swayed like a plant battered by a sandstorm. At least… Well. His vision did.

To this day, he doesn’t know what it was. All he knows is that it was… dry. And cold. And when it touched him, lightning danced around them. Now he knows it was _him_ , that it was _his_ life force—his quickening—that caused the light show. But it was terrifying.

He was certain he was going to die, that he was going to be sucked into oblivion and never take a breath again. He was certain he would simply… cease to be.

Don’t ask the old man about this. He doesn’t like not knowing things. He doesn’t like not being able to run, not being able to fight. He doesn’t like to be saved.

He was saved by a creature that was not dark, or cold, or dry. It was so very bright and warm, it burned. The light that consumed the lightning creature was rich and soft and _hurt_. _Oh it HURT_ ….

It was everywhere and nowhere. It had no form, but was so much more _real_ than the shadows and whispers in the deep cold dark. And the _sound_ … Oh it was not quiet. It was so _big_ and _loud_ … It was so much louder than anything the man had ever perceived. (And it _hurt…_ )

But the creature wasn’t like the other. It didn’t touch the young ancient man. It did mean to hurt him, or at least whenever it caused damage ( _his ears his eyes his_ ears _andOHhis_ eyes… _blood. There was blood_ ), it came, and with a warm and gentle touch, washed away what it had done. But despite how it lingered after the cold dry lightning creature was obliterated, it didn’t stay either. It was gone as suddenly as it had come.

However, if you ask the old man… he’ll tell you it seemed curious. It was like an eager child not quite sure how it was supposed to use its too-strong arms and too-loud voice. If you ask the old man, he’ll tell you the creature has a name.

He won’t tell you _this_. He won’t say how he met it. He doesn’t remember—it’s all a blur, you know.

But he will tell you he knows the creature. He’ll say the creature is too curious for its own good. He may share a few mishaps the two shared, or he may make up one that never happened (how would you know?). But, he’ll say the creature is still around. He’ll say it’s supernatural.

He may even mention… it was the first _thing_ he ever met on his long journey through the deep cold dark depths of the world. At least, he thinks it was. (It was so long ago… it’s so very fuzzy.) And he may tell you how that night was what flung him into the world of demons and magic just beyond normal human perception. And least, it probably did.

After all, every hunter has to start somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!  
> (Can anyone guess who the 'creature' is?)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around 3100BCE, Egypt. Tie-in to Buffy universe. You'll see :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this has been sitting written for a while. Figured I should stop poking at it and just post it, so here you go! Hope you enjoy it!

During the reign of the second Pharaoh of the First Egyptian Dynasty, before the man who would live to see 5000 long years had reached even a mere 200, there was power everywhere. It wasn’t hidden like the Ancients who no longer seemed to lurk in the shadows. And yet, the numerous gods and god-like men were only the tip of a dynamic (magical; supernatural; unnatural) world that grew just under the surface as civilization began to rise.

There was still darkness, just beyond the confines of humanity. It was still so cold and dark and deep. But the fire was just a little bit brighter, a little bit warmer, and a little bit bigger.

(Sometimes darkness can be found in the brightest of lights.)

You needn’t know all the details. You likely don’t care how the great Narmer did the impossible and united the people of the desert, who drifted like sand and protected their life-water with blood, before passing all his power onto his son. You probably don’t want to hear of stability and progress, the growth of a blossoming empire. You may find the tales of their gods intriguing— you may even be fascinated by how unrecognizable the famous deities were, by how twisted the lore would become over long centuries of use. However, tales of everyday pursuits—no matter how holy they were at the time—can be quite dull. (But never for those who lived it, you’ll find).

The man who would become the Ghost of ancient history, then known as Nebetka, had no interest in the excitement the ever-present darkness or all-powerful gods presented. He had tasted more than enough for his then-long years—condemned as a creature of darkness by his own people and hailed as a god by those across the great salt water. He was home (no matter how far away it was from where he was born) in the harshness of the desert, and was living a normal life. He cultivated the land and learned all he could about food and life, weapons and war. He chose to serve his new king and slowly rose as a fine pillar of the community— a man rich of mind and material possessions.

He did not expect to find another of his kind.

Nebetka was young. Nebetka was ignorant. He did not know who he was or what his kind… did. All he knew was he couldn’t die.

He had met a man, once, who made his bones hum and his stomach flip. He had met a man once, in his travels across the deserts and lush forests and rocky shores, who had killed him twice and taken a crude, broken, copper weapon to his throat. He had been mute for several years.

He had not expected to ever feel that hum again. But he did.

She was the high priestess of the Two Ladies, the protectors of Egypt. They said she was blessed with eternal life. They whispered that Nekhbet had shrouded her in her long soft feathers and Wadjet had coiled her light upon her in a protective embrace. They said she was a fierce warrior, and had ridden beside Narmer himself during the war of unification. They said that she protected the Pharaoh from threats no one else could stop. They said she tolerated no evil, and that she could do no wrong.

Nebetka was young. Nebetka was neither wise nor experienced. Nebetka believed them, and was awed by the stories of the Priestess of the Two Ladies who stood at Hor-Aha’s side.

He did not see her the first time, but merely felt the hum that rattled him to the core. The second time he connected the sensation to a recently completed temple he passed on his way to the new market square. The third time, as he walked past the monument, he was stopped by a woman clad in religious garb and guided into a private room in the back of the temple.

She sat him down and told him she knew who he was and the blessing bestowed upon him. She whispered, “The blood of lightning races through my veins too.” She explained the nature of his blessing; she spoke of the few chosen children who were blessed by Set, the god of chaos and storms, by Osiris, the god of death and rebirth. She told him of the children born from the will of two enemies working in tandem—children of lightning and immortality. “I can teach you,” she whispered, “It is the duty of our kind to guide the lost children who have not found their way.” And she did.

For several glorious years, every question the young ancient man could conceive of was answered, and every skill he would need to survive was drilled into his muscles. And though he wondered he never mistrusted. (“Why do we spar so often, Teacher?” he would ask. She would smile, “The world is dangerous and dark. We do what we must to protect and survive.”)

Nebetka was young. Nebetka was trusting and easily awed. Nebetka believed her, the Priestess of the Two Ladies, his mentor and guide.

A lifetime later, but all too soon, his reality was shattered. He passed some unspoken test and his Teacher pulled him aside as she had not too long ago. “You are ready for the truth,” she smiled her simple smile. She took him to a temple outside of the city, one that no one dared enter without the guidance of a Priest or Priestess. And as she led him through the maze of slightly loose stone walls (created with the best technology of the time), she told him what he truly was.

The truth was horrid. He was not blessed—not by Set or Osiris or any other god. She told him she had seen the sun rise and set before Ra’s name was ever uttered; she was from a time before his gods. “And the world before them was dark and pure and _powerful_ ,” (he will never forget the glint in her eye and the feral grin that sparked across her features), “We are born of that power. We are remnants of the Ancients who walked this earth long before humanity. It is our duty to aid them in their exile.” She stopped before the final archway, torch held high, casting her in sharp eerie contrast, “It is our duty to see them returned to their former glory.”

Stunned, he let her lead him into the depths of that hidden room. He let her pull him to the edge of some strange shimmering pool that glowed with vibrant fiery colors. He saw things in that pool, things he didn’t understand. Things he didn’t want to believe.

“Behold,” she whispered, breath hot against his ear, “The Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart, three of the mightiest Ancients. They shall flourish with humanity—a shadow within every light—and when the time is right, they shall bring the world to its knees.”

Nebetka was young and full of faith. Nebetka was rash and confident. He did not believe her, no matter her age, no matter if she was the Priestess of the Two Ladies or not. When he looked at her, he could now see the darkness that lurked beyond the light she blinded those around her with. He could see that she was not pure. He was certain. The Priestess of the Two Ladies was wrong.

He did not listen to the voices that called from the depths. He did not care what they had to say. He chose not to listen to his Teacher, his trust lying shattered on the ground.

She, in turn, gazed upon him with disappointment and distain. She narrowed her eyes and told him of the power contained in each of their kind and their destiny to unite it into a whole. She spoke of their one weakness, the one way they could cease to be. She gave him a choice. “You will see our destiny unfold,” she hissed, “Either by my side or from within my soul.” She told him she would kill him.

Nebetka was young. Nebetka was no Priest, no warrior. Nebetka was ordinary; ordinary, but determined. He may not have been chosen by his gods, but he refused to believe he was chosen by the ever present darkness either. So, Nebetka challenged her, the almighty Priestess of the Two Ladies, and took her head.

He destroyed two temples in the process.

He now knows that he saw a Hell Dimension through that portal. He now knows that his Teacher served three demons. He now knows what sorts of things lurk in the darkness he feared so much, and he knows exactly what he is and what his kind does. He knows quite a bit more than he did as Nebetka.

But, to this day, the man who became known as the oldest doesn’t know how old she was, the Priestess of the Two Ladies, his teacher and guide, his corrupter and betrayer, his first immortal kill. (She must have been old; her life-blood rocked the places of sanctuary she called home—a raging storm that tore down monuments—and her presence haunted her murderer for centuries—a deep, dark, cold pit lurking just below conscious thought. She must have been _ancient_. But he’ll never know, not for sure.)

All he knows is that Nebetka, and the man he was before that, died that day. He knows that where there is light, there is darkness too. (And the brighter the light, the darker the shadows.)  It cannot be escaped.  And that knowledge is terrifying—more terrifying than anything else he has learned in his long, long years.

Perhaps… that knowledge is what set him on the path to _embracing_ the darkness. Perhaps _that_ is why he drenched himself in the blood of innocents and left all semblance of humanity behind.

He’s not sure. He’ll likely never know.

(He knows he will forever be wary of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around 1500 BCE. Tied to Supernatural.  
> The reign of the Horsemen! But which set of Horsemen are we talking about?  
> WARNING: this chapter is more detailed and more graphic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hated this chapter, even once it was complete, for over four months. But now I think I finally fixed it. Now I think it's ready to share.  
> I apologize for the incredible wait. Life is life.

Before the Legend, there was Death. Death was a schemer, a killer, a betrayer. The man who had shunned the darkness all those years ago embraced it. He wrapped himself in a cloak of death and surrounded himself with individuals soaked in blood. He, and his brothers, sought to cultivate the fear that hid in the shadows. Although… ‘fear’ had a different meaning than what Methos once knew; the world was a different place. It was still dark, but the darkness bore no tangible weight. Creatures of unfathomable power still lurked just beyond human perception, but they tickled the senses less. They blended into humanity until the lines were so blurred it was impossible to tell light from dark.

The world was grey.

It was grey with smoke. It was heavy with death and light with life. Crops and diseases alike flourished. Civilizations grew and fell, built brick by painful brick only to be reaped in one foul swoop.

Methos held the scythe.

Four brothers, bonded in the blood they spilt and the lightning rushing through their veins, swept across entire continents. Through desert and jungle, valley and mountain; nothing stood in their way.

And the world was silver.

It was a shining jewel meant to be owned. It was a monument meant to be conquered. It was beautiful and brilliant, dangerous and deplorable, and… _theirs_.

Theirs to rule or ruin as they pleased.

And they did. For a thousand years, they did.

But, once, this all-consuming hunger was dampened, ever so briefly. Once, in the midst of their gore-induced euphoria, the four came face to face with a power they could not hope to defeat. They, the unstoppable brotherhood, the harbingers of the end, masters of terror, could not win.

You see, the world was grey.

It was cloudy, foggy; it was hard to see. You cannot claim the top of the world if you can’t even see the highest mountain. You cannot claim to be invincible if all the proof you have is your continued survival. One may own the largest stick they’ve ever seen, but that does not mean a bigger stick does not exist. But _they_ did not know this.

At the time, the world was silver. Simple and shiny, calling to be taken, yet all the same. It was predictable and uniform, and _oh_ so soft. It was easy to take and mold and change. It was so very _easy_ to melt it, to consume it, in their ravenous conflagration.

The world was silver and silver and grey.

See, it all began with boredom. Petty, simple boredom that crawled under the skin and made them restless. Made them reckless.

“This has grown old, brothers,” Kronos said upon the dawn of an ordinary day, that promised blood and power and everything else they always sought. He smiled his sharp smile, and the scar that spanned his face wrinkled with passion. “We should find some new way,” urged the brother who believed himself the eldest, “A new way to bring terror and death to those we hunt.”

“No, brother,” Silas disagreed, “We should cease our hunt for a time and seek a new land to conquer.” He turned from an elegant brown steed, the lines of his shoulders sharpening and the fire in his eyes reigniting. “We should seek riches beyond this land; exotic women and mighty horses.”

Caspian let out a titter of laughter, rocking slightly on his feet. He offered no opinion, savoring the conflict between his brothers with relish. They, in turn, attempted to stare the other down. Caspian just grinned that off-balance grin and muttered, “Death and terror, rich and new. Rich in death and new in terror…”

As one, the three brothers turned to Methos, seeking his guidance. As usual, the cunning immortal had a solution to the feud. He had heard rumors, whispered to him by the slaves he took, who willingly traded information for their continued survival. He had heard about… the Ends. He had heard about four magical creatures who called each other brother and who each held unfathomable power—even greater than what they themselves, in their own brotherhood, possessed.

Methos knew that they—he and his three brothers—were oft confused with these supposed all-powerful creatures. Methos knew that to the south in a rich oasis a mysterious plague, accompanied by a devastating famine and an inexplicable streak of violence had broken out. Methos knew—rather, believed—that he and his brothers could easily take these supposed ‘Horsemen’.

And so, he told his brothers.

He told Silas of the oasis, which he remembered from centuries prior and that he believed could only have grown richer, even with the death and destruction; surely there must be a few good horses, a few fine women. To Kronos he spoke of the creatures, of their powers and the symptoms they left in their wake. He told the three of them that they shared a legend with these creatures, but in reality, it could be theirs and only theirs.

In five hundred years of riding side by side, not once had they appeared so united as in that moment, as with that decision. They knew of the fear they left in their wake, and of the fear they spread before them. They knew knowledge of their existence and their power spanned as far as their story could travel, but to find it was not they alone…. To learn they shared this glory with another brotherhood was infuriating.

“This cannot stand,” Silas declared, his voice booming across their small camp, startling the horses.

“Destroy them,” Caspian agreed, a peculiar light igniting in his eyes.

“Yes, brothers,” Kronos nodded, “We shall find those who share our legend and we shall crush them as we crush all those who oppose us.” Kronos turned to Methos, “For are we not like these things you speak of? Caspian shows hunger beyond imagination and must surely be Famine. Silas takes joy in battle and blood, and so must be War. I enjoy suffering and killing from afar, so I must be Pestilence. And you, brother, you are cunning and mysterious, even to us. You, Methos, must be Death itself!”

Decided, they went. They traveled across the desert, guided by stories. Slowly their horses collapsed and the mortals who accompanied them dried out and withered to dust, leaving the four immortals to complete the journey alone. When they reached the oasis, they swept through the city, searching for the supposed Horsemen who shared their glory.

They found no all-powerful creatures, nor horses for them to ride. They found only pitiful starving mortals struggling to survive amongst disease and death, slaughtering each other for mere mouthfuls of food. The trees were brown, the sand was red. Houses burned, widows wept, and the water poisoned any who drank.

The brothers laughed.

They stayed the night and planned to leave come morning, disappointed that they could not face their adversaries.

But… the world was foggy and they knew so little; they could only see so much.

Come morning, when they emerged from the little hut they had commandeered, they were greeted by the sight of three strange men. They were not unusual, exactly; rather, they were too normal. They were healthy and strong, showing no signs of hunger or disease. Their faces were smooth and untarnished, their clothes untouched by the chaos that surrounded them…. And while the few mortals left in the little village fought and screamed and died, they merely stood and watched.

For a moment, the four brothers were puzzled. They stopped just outside the little hut and stared—they stood and listened.

“Ah, brother,” said one of the men, shrouded in a black head wrap, “May I?”

The one who stood in the middle shifted to look at the one who spoke, brushing his own head wrap out of his eyes, “Why, Famine, of course. I’ve always admired humanity’s depravity. Cannibalism is one of the best examples.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Kronos snarled and stepped forward. Methos instinctually reached out and stalled him— where was the fourth?

The man on the far side snorted, “Honestly, War. Listen to yourself.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, “Humans are nothing but messy and chaotic. Disease—”

“Stop with the whining already, Pestilence,” War hissed, “We are well aware of your _opinions_ , but no matter how many times you say it, disease will _never_ be better than all-consuming hunger or good old fashioned bloodshed.”

Ignoring his brothers’ fight, Famine stepped farther into the street, focused on a small group of humans who were huddled together, bickering over a scrap of meat. Moments later, one of the men towards the outside of the group launched himself at his neighbor, desperately sinking his teeth into the flailing woman’s neck.

Methos and his brothers watched in fascination as chaos broke out across the clearing that used to be an open communal area and the mortals began eating each other alive.

From there, things started happening too fast. First, Famine turned and saw the four brothers. Then, as the others turned – Methos could not tell you what exactly happened or how; all he remembers is Kronos snarling and shaking off Methos’ restraining arm, launching himself at the one called War.

The next thing Methos knew, Kronos was shredded, sprawled a few feet from the rest of them, dead. The sand around him, which formed a small crater, as though he had been hurled into the ground, was a dark vivid red. Methos himself was a the feet of Pestilence, gazing up at the man with confusion—how had he gotten over here when he had been standing several feet away not moments ago? Silas and Caspian were in similar positions, each staring up at one of the strange creatures.

Methos attempted to stand but found himself quickly crippled by unimaginable pain. The world tilted and he struggled to sit back up, staring at his hands the whole while. They were covered in blistering, oozing, red and yellow welts. _No_ , he thought in horror, _Immortals do not get sick—this is impossible._

“Well, well,” Famine murmured, “Look, brothers! These are those humans who have been torturing cities and spreading our legend.” His eyes were practically gleaming as he studied Silas, who appeared to be dry hurling, clutching at his stomach.

“You mean _stole_ our legend,” War spat, suddenly lashing out to hold Caspian by the throat. The immortal’s typically insane eyes were wide with startling clarity and genuine fear.

“Ah, War, I doubt they knew they shared a legend with us all this time. I mean, surely they’re here to eliminate us,” Pestilence crouched so he was eye-to-eye with Methos, “Isn’t that so, my friend? You came to take your legend back?”

Struggling to breathe, Methos merely nodded. His mind was whirling, trying to find a way— _any_ way—out of this situation. However, all he could do was observe the strange creatures and how they were affecting his brothers… the stories were all true. Everything his slaves had told him was true. They were too powerful. His brothers— they were all going to _die._

Famine let out a soft chuckle, “Ambitious, aren’t they?”

War let out a snarl and tossed Caspain to the ground. The immortal immediately curled in on himself and flinched violently as though he had been stabbed—it was as though he was being surrounded and slowly tortured, but there was no one there. “It serves them right. They shall learn their lesson as we send them to meet our brother.”

Pestilence straightened to glance at his brother, “You want to release their quickenings?” He frowned and turned back to Methos.

“Seems rather rash,” Famine tilted his head, still examining Silas.

“We do not have _time_ for this,” War snarled impatiently at his brothers, “We must join Death.” He turned to look back down at Caspian, “They are merely an inconvenience.”

“Come now, brother,” Pestilence soothed, smirking down at his own captive, “They may be disgusting, messy humans, but they are such _interesting_ humans.” Methos simply stared back at him, his face pinched in pain.

“ _Interesting_?” War asked with faint incredulity. At the ground to his side, Caspian suddenly twitched and made a deep sound of pain in the back of his throat, flailing at some invisible enemy.

Famine shifted, turning from where he was hunched over Silas (who was still gasping for air), a glimmer in his eyes, “I believe, my dear War, that Death would agree with Pestilence. Besides, I’m quite sure there’s some sort of cosmic plan with them, hmmm? The Fates would be ever so cross with us if we killed them.” A slow smile spread across his face as he sidled up beside Pestilence, “Besides, they make our jobs so _easy._ ”

“Fine,” War spat, eyeing his captives with obvious distain. “You may amuse my brothers, but _I_ am not impressed.” He suddenly released his hold on the writhing immortal beneath him. Caspian jolted upright, a desperate light in his eyes. Following his lead, Famine and Pestilence smirked and released their own captives. Methos sighed in relief, running a hand over the slowly healing welts, feeling the crackle of his quickening. Silas sagged in exhaustion, running a hand over his mouth.

“Take him,” War gestured to Kronos’ corpse, “and _go_. If I see any of you again I will not hesitate to squash you like the ants you are.” With that, the imposing figure spun on his heels and disappeared, leaving a slight shimmer of heat in his wake.

Pestilence, who was still staring with a single minded intensity at Methos, smiled a slimy smile—one that dripped with disgust and amusement, “I trust you have learned your lesson.” A blink later and he was gone. Famine merely gave the three breathing brothers a sharp, hungry grin, and followed his own brothers’ examples without a word.

For several long minutes, none of them moved. They barely breathed. It was only Kronos reviving with a gasp that spurred them into motion. Methos slowly eased himself to his feet as Silas attempted to calm their brother and explain what happened while he was dead. Although Kronos was livid, Silas was blank of all emotion, face still pinched in remembered pain. Methos sighed and looked back at the ramshackle town, taking in the still-present gore and the distant screaming. Just yesterday he had laughed. Now, he felt nothing.

Behind him, Methos heard Caspian start tittering uncontrollably in a rather insane manner. Barely a second later, Kronos snapped at him. After a moment, Methos turned and watched with detached fascination as Kronos stormed up to Caspian, his face pinched in anger as he roared at his brother and struck out. Caspian continued to laugh anyway, even as blood started to drip down his face. Silas seemed both resigned and irked. It wasn’t terribly unusual, but something was off.

Methos blinked in surprise and placed it: they all seemed pale. Shaken— _afraid_. Methos shook his head, _Look at what has become of us in these few short hours._ Pestilence’s last words rang in his mind… ‘ _I trust you have learned your lesson’._

No one is invincible. Nothing is simple. Nothing is completely predictable, and by assuming something _is_ predictable, you sign your own death warrant. This is what the brothers learned.

They left the oasis, grateful for their heads and continued survival. For a time, they were… shell-shocked. The idea that they could be defeated was a painful one. It was a large bump in their otherwise smooth road full of destruction and mayhem and power. For a time, they simple savored food and water and horses and survival, but then, in time, they rekindled their conflagration. They bathed in blood and basked in terror as cities fell at their feet.

The world was once again theirs to rule or ruin as they pleased.

And so they did. For five hundred more years, they did. But that knowledge was still there. The knowledge that _they_ could be defeated lurked just beyond conscious thought.

You see, this is a lesson Methos and his brothers learned the hard way. But… this is a lesson that only one remembered. _This_ is the story of how an old, angry, bloody man—dark and terrifying—was slapped upside the head. This is the beginning of how Methos learned to see colors.

The world is not grey. It is not light and dark and shades in between. It is not silver and smooth, simple and predictable. No. Oh, no.

It wasn’t instantaneous. It was a process, a process that took five hundred years. First, Methos recognized his own fallibility, his own mortality (however long-lasting). Then, he started to look, and he started to see. And he started to explore, and learn, and grow…

The world is vibrant. It is dynamic. It is ever changing, and growing, and shifting. Every person, every plant, and every creature are different—if you only know how to look and see. The world is _alive._

Methos held the scythe; it is true. And that darkness, that _hunger_ , will always be there. But now he has something so much better.

Knowledge is addicting—far more addicting than terror and violence. As Death, Methos held power over entire civilizations, but as a scholar Methos has held power itself. Knowledge _is_ power. And once you start learning…. How can you ever stop? At least, that’s what Methos will tell you, and for once… it may actually be the truth. The truth in action and mind, for it is something he truly believes.

And if you ever call him Death, well, that is just a reminder. It is a reminder of the true Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the creatures they shared a legend with. With _that_ name comes not only the memory of how he held a scythe of power, planning the fall of city upon city, but the memory of his defeat and knowledge that he is only human. It is a reminder of what he learned:

Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the Horsemen, Methos discovers he might have a guardian angel...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set about 500 years after the last chapter, around 1000BCE. Somewhere high and cold...

Once, a long, long time ago, a mighty brotherhood shattered. They scattered and were lost to the winds of time, just as the cities they had once razed had blown away in their wake. One may think their demise was due to some dramatic event, caused by a wild storm or a mighty battle, but… no.  While they had burnt cities to the ground, savoring the screams of the fallen, their own demise was one of quiet betrayal. It was masterminded by the wisest member of the loyal group. It was caused by a mind grown stagnant and restless, and a heart grown pained by the scorching ash and endless screams.

He was known as Methos. He was known as Death. By the world, he was feared. By his brothers, he was trusted. They never expected he would turn from their mission. They never expected that he would force their brotherhood apart.

They hadn’t stood a chance.

Methos had first cornered Kronos, luring him with the promise of another conquest before incapacitating him with finely poisoned wine. And so, Kronos became the Titan trapped in the well. Methos still does not know how long Kronos spent in his pit.

Methos had then returned to his other two brothers, explaining that Kronos was delayed and would return shortly. After that it was all too easy to lead Caspian to the edge of a cliff, to trip him, to watch him fall…. The insane immortal was likely washed hundreds of miles by the swift current before he escaped its grasp.

To Silas Methos was perhaps the kindest. Silas was a simple man who loved simple things. Food, pleasure, violence, animals…. Silas was the one who had cared for the brother’s horses as though they were more human than the mortals they slaughtered. And so, Methos found him a nice secluded forest and left him with his beloved companions. He would be happy there.

But Methos… Methos was shattered. He felt scattered. He was torn by love for those he had betrayed, and guilt for who he had become in their presence. He saw the beauty the world held clearly for the first time in millennia, but felt isolated from it.

He had no name. He had no purpose. His goal had been one of quiet, of peace. He had expected he could leave Death behind him. But once he had truly abandoned that life for good…

He hadn’t stood a chance.

Methos was a mere shadow of himself. He had become a lost, wandering wraith, with no direction, brimming with confusion and self-doubt. Methos had been Death; he had held sway over humanity—over life itself. And once—oh so long ago—he had been a pillar of communities. A wise man. A warrior. He was no longer any of those things.

He was not Death. He was not Methos. He was nothing. He was nothing but dark and corrupted, soaked in blood and stranded in the darkness of his own mind—no matter where he looked, where he searched, he only found even more darkness. In every town he saw blood and pain and betrayal. Under every façade of peaceful life, there was a dark simmering underbelly. Under every friendly face, he could only see the smear of hate.

The light he was so drawn to was nothing but an illusion. It was nothing but a thin veil pulled over eyes to protect tender unscarred hearts.

In truth, they didn’t stand a chance. Not really.

It was these thoughts that drove the already ancient immortal away from humanity. Instead, he found solace in the high mountains, amongst the creatures of the night; amongst creatures with four legs and glimmering claws, as well as creatures with sharp teeth and an aversion to sunlight. It was with these beasts that, in a twisted sense, Methos felt most at home. And it was on these quiet mountain tops that he felt the most at peace.

You see, Methos was naught but a shadow; a shadow that dwelt amongst shadows and saw darkness in the brightest corners of the world. For fear of the inevitable, he ceased searching and found a place amongst those too dark to ever instill him with false hope.

But… hope is not a force that takes kindly to being stopped.

For it was there, secluded in the darkness, far away from any light that Methos truly shed the mantle of Death. It was there, perched atop a frosted rock where breathing was a labor, that Methos was given a kick back to civilization.

It was night. It was cold. It was dark. Fire, the light of humanity, the heat of survival, the destruction of cities, the shelter of old, was far, far away. Once again, the man who would become known as the Legend was stranded—this time by choice.

But, once again, it came. Like an echo from memories long forgotten, it came. It came suddenly, and it was so very bright. It was warm, and burnt away the frost that lingered in the cold deep pre-morning darkness. It was bright and brilliant and loud. And once again, it _hurt_.

And, oh, it was so very familiar. It was like a glimpse of a long lost street, or a whiff of a distant faded scent. For Methos it was like an anchor; a painful grounding anchor into a world of memories—good and bad—that had long since been eclipsed.

The light didn’t stay long that first time; it left just as suddenly as it had arrived.

The next night Methos once again found himself perched on a freezing, frosted rock, silhouetted by the moon’s cold blue light, grounding himself as he struggled to breathe, the cold air burning his lungs.

Again, the light came, burning away the cold and the dark. Again, the light disappeared, leaving a scattered, shattered immortal in its wake.

This pattern continued for several nights, and although Methos did not know what it was or why it came, he found he clung to its light every time it visited. He found he welcomed the physical and mental pain; he found that he welcomed the change it provided.

Once, a long, long time ago, Methos had feared the mighty light and heat and noise. Now, numb as he was, the sharpness it brought was a welcome sensation.

So, when one night it failed to come, Methos felt lost. The next day he barely moved a muscle, and failed to find the simple sustenance he usually consumed for survival.

The next night he took his customary spot once again, huddled atop a slick frozen rock, up amongst the lowest stars where every breath stung. That night, during the deepest darkest hours, a lone shadowed figure approached him. It walked tall and proud, unlike the creatures of the night that stalked their prey. It walked with sharp measured steps and reached the lone lonely immortal before the battered shattered man could do so much as gather his wits.

Once the shadowed humanoid figure reached Methos’ rock, he simply eased himself down to sit a few feet from the not quite ancient man. Once there, the man simply followed Methos’ gaze and became engrossed in the same distant nothing that the immortal had spent countless hours staring upon.

Taken aback by the audacity and complacency, the man who was no longer Death studied his strange visitor’s silhouette critically, but found he could read no intention or character in the strangely sharp and ridged man. He could see nothing in the dark defined ridges of his face or the deep hazel of his eyes or the defined line of his shoulders. The stranger was as solid and unmoving as a rock.

A moment later, the mystery bore no interest for him, and Methos resumed his sightless stargazing, uncaring of the danger such an action could bear.

After several minutes of silence, the man spoke, tone devoid of all emotion, “You sit amidst darkness longing for the light. Why do you torture yourself in this way?”

Methos could not help but snort; he did not spare the man a glance as he replied, “You do not know what I have seen or done, nor do you know what I want.” Eyes still fixed upon the distant stars, he let a sharp feral grin slice across his face, “Go on your way traveler. This is the forest of monsters and you have come too close; if you linger you may cease to be.”

Methos expected the man to leave, or scoff, or even boast. He expected the man to react to the simple threat, but instead Methos merely felt intense unreadable eyes turn to bore into the side of his head. A moment later, the man spoke again, voice still as solid and unyielding as the rock upon which they perched, “Do you define yourself as a monster, Anubmose?”

Methos’ head snapped around instantly at the name—a name that literally meant “born of death” in Egyptian, a tongue from the immortal’s shadowed past. It was an impossible deduction and an uneasy reminder. Beneath him, the stone seemed impossibly colder. Before him, dark eyes, that shone blue in the moonlight, seemed impossibly brighter.

The man did not wait for an answer, brushing over the question, “I remember you, Methos. I once met you alone in the dark, back when the dark held creatures far more monstrous than any beast dwelling amongst these trees.”

Methos found he could only blink.

The mysterious man tilted his head just a touch to the side, “My siblings tell me I should abhor your kind; they say you betray the laws of life and death.”

Methos opened his mouth and no sound came out; a few moments of struggling later, a strained voice he barely recognized slipped from his lips, “Perhaps you should have listened.”

“Perhaps even abominations deserve a little light.” The stranger’s face remained still like stone, but a small crack of emotion appeared deep in his eyes. What that emotion was, however, Methos could not fathom. They were deep, and dark, but so very warm…

 _How does he know so much?_ a voice whispered in the back of the ancient immortal’s mind. _Why does he seem so familiar? What does he_ want _?_

Methos swallowed hard and attempted to seek some semblance of coherency or control from the questions swirling through his mind. Before he was done, however, a question emerged unbidden, “How do you know who I am?”

The stranger remained unmoving, unblinking. “I have watched you.”

“Watched me?” Methos felt as though he was floating, watching in shock from some distant perch as his mouth responded, strangled and hoarse. Panicked.

“I was curious,” he provided simply, as though that explained everything.

The immortal swallowed hard, attempting to calm his pounding heart. “How long…” distantly he was aware of swallowing, “how long have you been watching me?”

“I have been aware of your existence since before you were truly aware of it yourself, Anubmose,” the stranger spoke almost kindly, “Although, I have not sought you out for nearly a millennia—not since you turned to violence and took up a name that was not yours to bear.” The man tilted his head, watching Methos’ reaction. Methos could not say what was on his face in that moment (he felt shattered, scattered), but whatever it was, it seemed to satisfy the man. No, that wasn’t right… The _creature_ , for there was no way he was human. There was no way, not with those knowing eyes and that stone-like face.

The creature shifted forward ever so slightly, “This is also why I have stayed with you for so long, Methos, once I found you here, in solitude.”

Methos couldn’t help the wave of confusion those words brought, “But I’ve never seen you before…”

The creature merely smiled an earnest, simple smile (and still his face was like stone). “I have visited you many times in these past few days; however, this is the first time I have come before you in a vessel. I grew tired of watching you bleed.”

“Vessel?” Methos murmured, baffled, staring at the creature’s stone-like smile. “Bleed?” It never wavered. After a few painful moments, he merely tilted his head.

In that time, Methos struggled to deduce what the strange creature meant. When he did, he was flabbergasted. He was awed. He was… doubtful. Was this creature truly the powerful force he had found solace with the past several nights?

Wrapping himself in confidence, he frowned at the statuesque creature, “You claim to be light incarnate?” The reaction was instantaneous.

“I _claim_ to be nothing,” the creature nearly snarled, its eyes glowing with undeniable proof of its identity. Of its power. For a moment the forest hummed with tension, the air itself seemed to lighten, and warmth seeped from the creature’s human form, melting all traces of frost from the rock. For a moment Methos struggled to breathe and stared upon the being before him in astonishment. For a moment, for the first time since the Horsemen, since betraying his brothers and becoming numb, Methos felt fear. Real, honest, _painful_ fear.

A second later and all traces of the incredible demonstration, save for the lingering warmth in the unfrosted rock, were gone. Methos found himself certain (and, at the same time, so very unsure) that he had seen two giant, shadowed forms stretched out behind the unfathomable creature.

Once again calm and smooth like stone, the creature continued, “You have, despite being an abomination, perceived a raw manifestation of my true form. It is fascinating that you, in all your darkness, have not been burnt from existence, Anubhotep.”

Methos blinked at the name and forced himself to shake off the bone-rattling fear, “True form or not, I am not at peace with death.”

“Are you not?” At Methos’ dry look, the creature gave its stony smile. “You have lived many lives, Nebetka.” Methos inhaled sharply, shocked, _pained_ , as the creature continued with a knowing glimmer in its eyes, “Nebamun, Menkhaf. You have been lightning, Baraqu, an omen for city upon city. Is that not true, Gishkim? Namhu?”

Methos shuddered with emotion—with memories. Each name bore a minefield of good and bad, echoes of the lives he had given up and forgotten. Echoes of the man he was before— Before…

“You have seen and lived death,” the creature continued simply, bluntly, “You have heralded it. You have brought it. Have you not found peace with it as you fought and died, Enkara? As you killed? As you felled mortal upon mortal? Tell me, Death… are you afraid of what you claim to be?”

The immortal squeezed his eyes shut at the reminder; he smelt blood and ash, heard screams and laughter, and felt sick. “I claim to be nothing,” he whispered, throat raw, echoing the creature’s earlier words.

“Perhaps no longer,” it allowed, “but that does not change your past, Methos.”

Methos nodded weakly, “I know.” _I know with every fiber of my being_.

A quiet silence fell, and Methos reveled in the cold air stinging his lungs, the cold stone beneath his hand, the cold wind rustling the leaves…. Finally, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes to the deep, dark night and met the creature’s impassive gaze.

“And this is why you hide from the light?” it asked, head tilted in something resembling curiosity.

“No,” Methos breathed, “I hide from the shadows the lights cast.” He gave a short bitter snort, “At least the darkness is honest.”

A slight frown slid across the creature’s liquid stone face, “Are you certain darkness is that simple, Anubhotep?”

The immortal simply shook his head, heart heavy and brittle, feeling shattered. Scattered. “How can the absence of light be anything but?” Darkness was all he knew; it was all he was.

The creature’s face morphed again, returning to that faint mysterious smile, “There is not a place upon your world that is truly vacant of all light.”

Methos frowned.

“You seek solace in the dark, but this is not true darkness. Look,” the strange creature urged him, gesturing toward the forest, glancing to the sky, “Do you not see?”

As confused as he may have been, Methos looked and, to his great surprise, _saw_. He saw that, where he had seen only a dark cold sky, there were thousands upon thousands of glimmering lights. Where he had seen only a cool unforgiving moon, he now recognized the light it provided all the same. It was dark, yes. It was a deep, cold, unforgiving darkness. But that darkness was not absolute. There were flickers of light in the forest—fireflies, Methos mused— where the darkest shadows dwelt, and out upon the old tired immortal’s rock, it was so very bright that everything shone a brilliant blue in the moonlight.

And in that simple moment, that cold blue light felt pure. In that moment, the man who had been known as Death felt almost clean.

“Why?” Methos asked unable to voice anything more. He was overcome with confusion and awe, with fear and distrust. _Why are you here? Why show me what I could not see? Why now?_

“Why not?” the creature countered simply, as though it could hear every question swirling through the ancient man’s head.

“But,” the immortal protested, feeling so incredibly young, “ _why?_ ” _Why are you interested in me? Why have you watched me for so long? Why are you_ here _?_

The creature smiled the same simple smile, “I was curious.”

That, Methos supposed, was as good an answer as he was ever going to get. With some difficulty, he quieted the questions still churning and thrashing like petulant children ( _Why am I here? Why am I alive? Why have I changed when my brothers have not? Why have I not found peace? Why can’t I move on? Why?_ Why _?_ ) and sighed. He met the strange creature’s constant unblinking gaze and asked a different question: “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” the being turned from Methos for the first time since the conversation began, casting his eyes back to the stars. “I am content. You are an unusual human, Anubhotep, but I believe Naomi and Uriel are mistaken about your kind. You are not an abomination.”

Methos, however, found he was not as certain—not with his past, full of blood and ash, and the intoxicating draw he still felt towards darkness and pain. But, as he studied the sharp stone-like outlines of the creature and contemplated its words and the names it had used, he found himself sidetracked by a thought. A singular question he had not even thought to ask. “Who are you?”

Without turning from the stars, the creature smiled yet again, “I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord.”

Methos found himself confused yet again, “Lord?” _As in a god or deity?_

“I am Castiel, Methos,” the being’s voice brokered no argument, “and one day, provided you retain possession of your head, you shall understand my Father is no simple god.”

Methos simply frowned deeper as Castiel rose gracefully to their feet.

“But, now, I must depart and rejoin my siblings in the land presently known as Egypt. They have no doubt noticed my absence, and I cannot allow my disobedience to lead them here,” Castiel peered stonily down at Methos, “They will not stop to consider whether you are truly an abomination or not.”

For the second time in a single night, Methos felt fear. “I thought I couldn’t die.”

“An angel is not a weapon of death, Anubhotep, but destruction,” Castiel corrected. “I find it unlikely that your kind could withstand the might of our fury.”

Momentarily frozen, Methos nodded his understanding. He did not want to die, not really; he’d be careful of those like Castiel. Perhaps he could even manage to move on… to return to civilization and—no. No, he did not belong in the light. Even if it was bright and true, even if it was no illusion, he was a being of darkness and belonged amongst the pale shadows in this not-quite-darkness.

Meanwhile, Castiel gave him one last smile and turned to leave. A moment later, they stopped suddenly and turned back to the still frozen immortal, as though sensing his thoughts, a frown on their face. Their eyes were bright and earnest. “From what I understand, of all my Father’s creations, humanity is the most grey and variable in its tendencies—which is what makes you beautiful and dangerous, as well as misguided and weak,” Castiel shook their head, as though baffled by some great mystery. “It is, as I understand it, ill advised to isolate an individual from these variations.”

They took a step closer to the immortal, insuring his full attention, “Do not deprive yourself light simply because you can see the darkness, Methos.”

Then, with one last sentiment of hope, the angel disappeared instantaneously, leaving nothing but air behind.

In Castiel’s wake, Methos found himself both more conflicted and more centered than he had in centuries. He found himself preparing to gather his scattered, shattered pieces and to start fitting them back together. There, in the cool moonlight, isolated from the fire of civilization, Methos finally left his brothers behind completely, in thought as well as action.

There, in the cold dark night, Castiel’s last words echoed in his ears:

“You are at peace with death. Now you must learn to live with life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names Castiel mentions are either Egyptian or Sumerian. I found most from lists of names, but I had to piece together Anubmose and Anubhotep (from Anubis, god of death and funerals, -mese/-mose meaning born and -hotep meaning peace). I have no idea if any of them are actually correct, but they sound absolutely wonderful. Nebetka-Egyptian; nobelman's name. Nebamun-Egyptian; artisan or official's name. Menkhaf-Egyptian; prince or vizer's name. Baraqu-Sumerian; meaning lightning. Gishkim-Sumerian; meaning omen or sign. Namhu-Sumerian; personal male name. Enkara-Sumerian; meaning weapon.  
> I tried to show Methos coming to realize that his visitor was (a) not human and (b) not male by altering how Castiel is described. I hope it worked out.  
> As always, please let me know what you think!  
> (Bonus points if you can figure out where Castiel is heading and the episode of Supernatural that inspired that little detail...)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always welcome :)


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